He’d seen his face in the mirror and found that he didn’t much like his looks;
he thought the chromosomal game had gone wrong for him.
Then, through his tears, he realized he shouldn’t have been born a guy ’n’
that he really should have been born gyn.
But he might, by force of drill,
fix that place that to him no longer appealed.

The change would be far from subtle,
causing double takes and “Whoa!”s
Genetically he would not change his shape,
but cheeks more rose,
collagenized lips,
bedroom eyes,
down south: no more head.

No imagined ideal of femininity. . .lipid lift behind each nipple:
two globes would be molded such that they would look titularly real.
He would be invagin’ed, with a new place where suitors shoot their perky plasma seed.
Out with haberdashery! Grab a purse so casually—
that’s, of course, a change to fit the new appearance.
Ditch the guy—girl impressions he now must effect.

Not too many he’s will have made miss-makes;
once under the knife, the new appearance is clearly unlikely to amend.
But he had picked his ideal appearance: dame, no more ply-dick him. . .a mom, not daddy, impulse.
A shame to get halfway there and then change one’s mind.

He marvels at the strides modern medicine, science have made
(and then it dawns on him that “made” is an anagram of “dame”).